Depression
by Alitote
Summary: Whenever he doesn't hear from Iggy for awhile he drops in no matter what their current relationship standing is, just to make sure he's okay. England doesn't want to admit it, but he's secretly glad someone cares so much. *Cover Image and Hetalia are not mine!*


Whenever the calls stopped Francis knew something was up with Arthur. And when he stopped answering his calls and texts Francis knew it was time to buy another plane ticket and pack another bag so he could take another unplanned trip.  
Arthur's hidden key was in a different place this time, and Francis had to assume he'd rehidden it in the hopes of being left alone-not that Francis could ever let that happen though. Last time he had there had been a drunken call at three in the morning that Francis shuddered to remember yet always raced to the fore front of his mind whenever one of these episodes were brought on.  
He found that small little metal key under a stone in the garden this time, covered in mud and bits of squashed plant. Wiping it off he walked quickly to the front door and unlocked it, opening and closing the door as quietly as possible if only to avoid hearing demands to leave right there on the spot.  
The house was dark and cold, shadows falling across the floor where light penetrated the windows and casting eerie images as they went. Francis walked softly, slipping off his designer shoes so they didn't make noise and padding across the hall to the sitting room in his socks.  
No one there, just a large stack of unopened mail on the coffee table beside a framed picture of Matthew and Alfred-it looked like a recent picture too. There was also a cold cup of tea, half empty and forgotten. Francis sighed, walking through the room to the kitchen where he could see it was just as empty and just as cold and detached as the rest of the house. Some of the drawers were hanging open, like the junk drawer and the utensil drawer, where spoons and forks sat scattered in a mess like Arthur had been looking for something. The dishwasher hung open too, like he'd been in the middle of washing dishes when everything had gotten to him. Francis cast a wary glance towards the large wooden box of kitchen knives to ascertain they were all sitting there where they should be.  
They were.  
Relieved (although he refused to think about it), Francis walked from the kitchen to the guest room and the storeroom just to make sure and then gulped a deep breath before ascending the rather noisy stairs, certain Arthur would know he was here now.  
The first bedroom to his left was empty, covered in a thick layer of dust too.  
The study across from it was just as abandoned, if less neglected.  
That left the bedroom at the end of the hall, the master bedroom.  
If only to prolong it, Francis peeked inside the bathroom, finding it dark and empty, a layer of shattered glass laying across the sink where the mirror had broken. A small amount of blood painted some of the shards, a few that lay at angles that suggested they'd been messed with post-shattering.  
Deciding he couldn't put this off any longer, that he'd have to finally find Arthur and shake sense back into him, Francis closed the bathroom door and thrust the master bedroom's open. What lay beyond it was a torn up room; comforter and pillows scattered across the floor from where they'd been thrown off the bed. One side table had been overturned, the phone laying dented and singing it's dial tone like an accident victim a few inches away in front of it.  
"Arthur?" Francis called softly, closing the door like they needed the extra privacy, "Are you there Angleterre?"  
A rustling from the closet was his only answer, and upon opening it Francis had to dig to get the back, dark corner where Arthur had holed himself up. His body was pressed as far as it could get into the small space, trying to make himself as small as possible it seemed. Francis turned to close the closet's sliding door once more before blindly groping his way to where Arthur sat, curled up with his face buried in his knees and arms hugging himself tightly like it was the only thing keeping him together.  
"Oh Angleterre…" Francis cooed, sitting down beside the small Englishman and ruffling his hair, "Mon cheri, if you wanted to keep me out you should have answered a few more of my texts…" Arthur didn't do anything but grunt in something of annoyance or agreement before Francis pulled him from the corner and settled himself in his place. Then Arthur was quick to crawl into his lap, where he settled into an age old position of hiding his burning face in Francis' shoulder as the Frenchman ran manicured fingers through his unruly blonde hair and whispered sweet sounding french into the darkness.


End file.
